


Among Other Things

by JuliaJekyll



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hannibal in Love, M/M, POV Hannibal, POV Second Person, Possibly Unrequited Love, catacombs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:56:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4432859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaJekyll/pseuds/JuliaJekyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set early in Season 3. Hannibal's experience in the catacombs while waiting for Will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Among Other Things

**Author's Note:**

> When Hannibal comes back from the catacombs in Season 3, Bedelia comments that it must have been nice to know Will was there. Hannibal replies that it was, "among other things".  
> This fic is my answer to my own question: which "other things", exactly?

You're cold. 

The corners of your mouth lift in a smirk of involuntary amusement at the thought. You've been called cold before, recently as a matter of fact, but it meant something different then, something unconnected to anything so easily quantifiable as temperature. Bedelia, one of the few people from whom you can reasonably expect a candid assessment of yourself, once described you as "cold"; cold-hearted, cold-blooded, cold-eyed; any one of these, you imagine, could be an expansion on the term. 

She'd said it during one of the conversations between the two of you that had transformed into what had felt like an informal therapy session (despite Bedelia's claim that she was unable to continue your therapy, she was still a psychiatrist, and thus could not help behaving like one). 

"I've killed barely anyone since I've been here," you'd announced matter-of-factly as you welcomed her to your residence here in Florence, figuring she would consider that a pleasant surprise. 

Bedelia had shrugged off her coat, letting you take it. "And why is that?" she'd asked. 

Ah, that intellectual curiosity. A question asked with a bite of fear that trembled under a veneer of cool, practiced professionalism. A fear you might not even have picked up on, were you not so adept at recognizing that particular emotion.

You'd smirked a bit, thinking of your penchant for answering Bedelia's questions with questions, then decided to be generous with her for once. She had, after all, come all this way and was going to pretend to be your wife in company, implying that vows of trust had been taken at some point that should be honored in a partial way befitting their hypothetical nature. 

"Well," you'd said with a mild shrug, "I don't think it would do to start killing people the moment I showed up. It would look rather suspicious, don't you agree, my dear Dr. du Maurier? 

Bedelia had looked at you with a faintly skeptical expression. "I suppose so," she'd said. 

You'd offered her a seat and a glass of wine, both of which she'd accepted, at which point she'd surmised your intentions: "So you've been giving yourself off as a...cultured professional, a high-class lover of the arts, perhaps an Italianophile, if you will, who at some point simply felt the desire to pack up and effect a transfer to Florence?" 

You'd sipped your wine, savoring the taste. Bedelia's bewilderment was rather amusing. "I don't know why you imply that I'm  _not_ , in fact,all of the things you listed," you'd said. "But yes, precisely." 

"And you think that's what everyone sees when they look at you?" 

You remember not having liked this question. Bedelia knows you very well; what does she see that you don't? 

You'd cocked your head at her, setting your wine down. You gave her a straight answer once tonight, but that spike of generosity was gone now. 

"What do you see when you look at me, Bedelia?" 

Bedelia had hesitated, surveying you with contemplative eyes over the rim of her glass, from which she'd barely taken a sip of the burgundy liquid (did she think you'd laced it with blood?) 

"If I were an outside observer," she'd said slowly, "by which I mean, a non-participant in your life...if I didn't know you, I'd see coldness. You cut a very cold figure, Hannibal, with your flawless posture and your unreadable eyes." 

You'd mulled that over for a second. "Well," you'd said at last, your tone nonchalant, "you  _are_ more perceptive than most." 

You remember Bedelia's words now, as you rub your arms in an attempt to combat the cold of the catacombs. You may liken yourself to God when you kill, but you're still subject to other human limitations, and the catacombs, apparently, are aware of this. 

And so, you shiver. You feel goosebumps break out on your neck and forearms as the cold penetrates the thin material of your dress shirt. And you wait. 

You can hear it when they enter, of course. Two people, men by the sound of their footsteps. Your breath makes a small cloud in front of you as you open your mouth slightly, tasting the musty air, leaning forward, desperately wanting to know if this is Will, if he's here, if he's come. 

"Hannibal?" 

You can't help it; you start slightly. It's his voice. 

You have never wanted anything as much as you want to answer his call, or better yet, to find him. Your hands clench with the effort not to move, because you know you can't. You know you won't. 

But oh, how you want to. 

It's so cold. You close your eyes briefly, indulging your desires in the only way you can: in your mind. You imagine Will here, putting his arms around you, holding your shivering body, warming you in every way imaginable. 

You feel your chest ache with longing, because you still want Will as much as you ever did. The familiar taste of desire replaces the taste of the dusty catacombs on your tongue, and you tremble. You shudder with a craving so strong that no amount of bloodshed could ever hope to satisfy it, because no killing or destroying will give you Will. 

You're  _il mostro,_ the monster of Florence. You're cold, you're unreadable. But you can read yourself, and you know that you're in love. 

You know it because you can remember touching Will's face, meeting those blue eyes, feeling a powerful attraction and a desperate urge to kiss. You recall watching him teach, engaging and brilliant and beautiful. You've seen him happy, frustrated, angry, determined; you've watched him wake drenched in sweat from nightmares that were drenched in blood, watched him kill, watched him live. And you've loved him, every moment. 

It's Will who makes you warm. The warmest you've ever been and are ever likely to be. 

You note your physical feelings: eyes beginning to glaze slightly with tears of want, a touch of arousal brought on by thoughts of Will, an earnest shiver, a mild need to urinate. This is the physical, the real. You must focus on that, because you cannot have your fantasies. 

In your mind, Will presses a kiss to your temple. 

"You should be wearing a jacket down here," he says softly into your ear. You feel his curls tickle the side of your face, and you let him hold you, placing your head in the hollow of his throat. For once, just once, you want to be the vulnerable one. You want Will's arms around you and his lips on your skin, until you finally believe he's real, that he's come for you, that he cared enough to follow you here. 

"Hannibal?" 

You bite your lip. You blink the tears away. You stand and listen, even though you ache. 

"I forgive you," Will says. His voice is broken. 

You squeeze your eyes shut in relief. 

* * *

"It must have been nice," Bedelia says, when you've returned and told her what happened in the catacombs. When you're warm again at last, or at least, your body is. 

"It _was_ nice," you confirm. Your voice is perfectly neutral, your expression impenetrable, your feelings buried deep again. 

Because you're cold. 

But not so cold that you can resist one small concession: "Among other things." 


End file.
